In the era of ever-present technicolor, the constant swiping, flashing and moving finally meets its match: Ida, the Polish film noir that refreshes American audiences by presenting them with the cinematic elements of silence and stillness in a setting of everyday life. Other non-American audiences are familiar with the aforementioned “surprise” cinematic elements, as they can be found in their own cultures, but that fact could be yet another reason for Ida winning the Best Foreign Film Oscar in 2015. Either that, or the exceptionally expressive silence and simplicity of both cinematography and plot as the heavy, bleak postwar atmosphere is established by an amalgamation of larger-than-life cinematography,  dramatic direction and laconic screenplay. It is also embodied by the two protagonists; Agata Trzebuchowska as Anna/Ida Leibenstein and Agata Kulesza as Wanda Gruz. The Polish-born director Pawlikowksi meets the English-born—yet still somewhat Polish— playwright Rebecca Lenkiewicz and together they grace us with a simplistic, yet not so simple tale of their motherland through the story of the oddly-paired female duo of a niece and her aunt meeting for the first time, each of them holding crucial pieces of the other’s story. 

By 2015, many acclaimed directors, from Tarantino to Curtiz, had attempted depicting war. Most times their war stories were cut short, the spectator left with an ending that celebrated the end of war and the usual heartfelt reunion of the characters, with no thought given to the trauma, censorship and decadence both that war visits upon a nation and its people. Ida shows precisely that trauma, and a little bit more. The story sheds light on a plethora of aspects of daily life, but in addition, and more importantly,it exposes unbearable truths.

The film opens with a closeup of a young girl with a porcelain face and a semi-blank expression. The tone is set immediately as the silence in the convent is pin-drop; the three-minute sequence is broken by collective chants of prayer and the cluttering of cutlery. The novice nun, Anna (Agata Trzebuchowska), is ordered by her Mother Superior to leave the convent that she’s lived in her whole life, to meet her only living relative before she takes her vows. Despite initial resistance, the devout Anna takes off for Lodz to meet her aunt Wanda Gruz (Agata Kulesza). Though the city is busier and more lively than the convent, the same cloud of stagnant heaviness and quiet decadence prevails. Once she gets to Wanda’s apartment, Anna is confronted with a 40-something, slim, well-kept woman puffing on a cigarette. As Anna enters, Wanda’s partner from the previous night exits, initiating the first of many instances of unspoken tension and skeptical disapproval between the two women. 

Moments later, Wanda reveals to Anna that she is not, in fact, Anna but Ida Lebenstein, daughter of her beloved sister. With this new awareness of her Jewish identity, Ida decides to visit the village Wanda grew up in; the same village where her parents were first hidden by Christians and afterwards executed, like many other Jewish Poles. Wanda joins her, embarking—perhaps not entirely knowingly—on a journey of discovery of her own and is confronted with repressed trauma that slowly resurfaces after years of being left unaddressed. Their trip to Wanda’s old home leaves them rather empty-handed and Wanda rather unsettled, or at least unsettled enough to drink a respectable amount of alcohol and run their car straight into a ditch. The one outcome of this visit is a wild-goose-chase for Szymon Skiba; a man who not only allegedly murdered the Leibensteins, but whose descendants are now residing in Wanda’s old home. On their way to Szymon, the duo picks up a young—and rather handsome—hitch-hiking saxophonist, Lis; a male siren, though sprinkled with naiveté and not quite as treacherous. Ida’s interactions with him throughout the movie hint at her spiritual struggle and confusion with this newfound temptation. Once the two women find and interrogate Szymon about his actions, Wanda’s rapid decay truly commences. His son, Feliks, pleads guilty to the murder of the Leibensteins and revealing their burial grounds, amongst them being Wanda’s ever-mourned son. This comes as the last drop to overflow Wanda’s bottled up emotions. The iconic closeup shots give much power to both protagonists: Wanda, whose face paints pictures better than words and Ida, whose dark almond eyes do not give us a clue of what she’s thinking. However, that power is taken away through remote shots that reveal how small these women are in the grand scheme of Poland and its history. Along with the unraveling of this odd yet electrifying relationship, through the progression of their road trip and the work of cinematographers, the audience sees endless grey Polish skies, vast valleys and the decaying urban planning of Communist Eastern Europe. The two women have a reciprocally interlinked relationship with their motherland: Wanda and Ida are Polish, but they are where they are because of Poland. 

Pawlikowksi and Lenkiewicz unveil the two stories in parallel, not favoring one over the other. Their stark differences come to light as they reveal their approaches to life: when Wanda pushes forward, discounting potential risk, Ida avoids confrontation. Ida’s spirituality is ridiculed by Wanda, who appears to have lost all faith after being betrayed by both country and party. Wanda’s constant remarks about her niece’s sheltered ignorance render her the experienced one; the one who’s lived, fought, won—or thought she’d won—and lost. Despite their differences, Ida and Wanda’s connected past brings them together. And although it’s  impossible to predict what these women will do once they find their truths, it’s their past that pushes them both towards and away from their revelations. 

The film’s storyline unspools like a silk thread. Conversations are few and short. The lack of overt physical tension or telenovela plot twists might make action-hero-movie-junkies deem Ida uneventful. Yet the tension is there: unspoken, repressed and haunting. In its “uneventfulness”, Ida reveals a distinctively Polish tale of coming of age, discovery of identity, denial, temptation, excitement, pain, mourning, giving up, going on.  Ida deserves a spot on everyone’s “must-watch” list.  Ida was neither the first nor the last Jewish child in Poland left orphaned and raised Christian to be spared death. But through her journey in search of closure, we are exposed to the truth of a shared memory and collective trauma that begs to be recognized and addressed.